


Justice League of Zootopia

by Yeah_JSmith



Series: Lawyers AU [3]
Category: Zootopia (2016)
Genre: Academic flirting, Alternate Universe - Lawyers, Dates you will be jealous of, F/M, Friendship, Gen, Politics, only they do not call them dates, unacknowledged relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-19
Updated: 2019-02-03
Packaged: 2019-03-06 18:41:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 18,488
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13417275
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Yeah_JSmith/pseuds/Yeah_JSmith
Summary: One year after the Bellwether case, Nick and Judy start a side project on the sly. The usual jerks they deal with are nothing compared to the real monsters: politicians.Or; "How to Win Friends and Influence Legislation."





	1. Espress Yourself

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nick and Judy finish a stupid case, get coffee, and make a deal.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For this series, I started a free constitutional law class (MIT’s open courseware) and bought myself business law and criminal law textbooks, both of which I read from cover to cover. I’m in the process of learning New York’s criminal code, I read Ruth Bader Ginsburg’s autobiography (she is now my absolute fucking hero), learned a good amount of divorce and other civil procedures from various states, read a book on precedent-setting SCOTUS decisions, and just for funsies, utterly failed a mock bar exam. After all that, all I know is that I still know jack shit about law. I will get things wrong. I might mix up terminology. I will almost certainly make stupid mistakes. I have filled my head with knowledge, but without training, all I really have is a list of stuff, and now I kinda want to go to law school, because dayum, is this shit interesting. If you’re still interested in continuing, read on, but please be advised that this makes heavy use of my uneducated interpretation of legal procedure.

Whoever spread the rumor that bunnies were never predators is a lying sack of dicks.

Hopps has that unbearably smug smirk plastered across her muzzle, the one she wore when she became the darling of the media last year after the Bellwether debacle, as his current case falls to pieces. Oh, sure, the jury still has to deliberate, but Nick’s smart enough to see the writing on the wall, and Hopps doesn’t even need to pounce. She’s got him right where she wants him, trying to make his closing statements and do his best to get this wretched creature off on a technicality. That doesn’t exist. Because, apparently, Hopps willed it to be so, and it was so.

It is, he thinks,  _extremely_ hot, and he’s not sure what to do with that. That’s not exactly the kind of thing he thinks on a regular basis.

“Assorted mammals of the jury,” he begins, ever the professional, but his case is shot anyway. Not only does Hopps have the truth on her side, but she has a passion for justice that Gesa Klaue never had. In a few years, Judy Hopps will be everybody’s main adversary and general pain in the tail. For the past year, she’s been doing much more work, but nothing a paralegal couldn’t do with the help of Zoogle and a patient mentor. Still, she’s shadowed Gesa faithfully in their meetings and Nick often hears her ask pointed questions when she doesn’t know he’s skulking around.

(He’s always skulking. It doesn’t matter that he’s just quiet; he’s a fox, and what’s more, he has the gall to be a fox in public spaces. The court of public opinion means almost as much as an official court ruling. At least defense lawyers are expected to be sleazy; nobody even bats an eye when he introduces himself anymore.)

This particular case is only Hopps’ case because Gesa recused herself for some reason the Court has deigned not to share, but everyone assumes is species bias, since the defendant is a raccoon. Still, whatever the reason, once again, it’s Judy Hopps against Nick Wilde in a trial that never should have been. He tried to advise Richard Handle to accept Hopps’ plea deal,  _begged_ him, even, but his client had been far too stubborn to consider anything but a jury trial.

Honestly? Nick almost doesn’t get paid enough to put up with Handle’s dumbshit commentary and enormous ego, but it’s not his tail on the line anyway. Of the hundreds of cases his firm takes on, only a pawful of them actually go to trial, and everybody knows that the defendants are rarely found not guilty. Nick has never, to his knowledge, defended an innocent client, though he’s successfully gotten a “not guilty” verdict twice in the seven years he’s been practicing and negotiated countless deals. Jury trials aren’t the be-all end-all of anything, but every trial is like a test to make sure the system works. And it does. The first “not guilty” kept Nick awake at night for weeks,  _because_ the system works. If there’s not enough evidence for a conviction, there’s not enough evidence for a conviction. The second was barely a blip on his radar. He slept for a full eighteen hours afterward and woke up with cottonmouth and thirty-nine missed calls from his irate case manager.

Richard Handle deserves to rot in prison, and Nick’s not at all upset about the inevitable outcome. It still stings on a professional level when his carefully-crafted arguments and  _months_ of mind-numbing research into precedence and obscure clauses are torn down by this young hotshot in a hip-hugging skirt suit. Desirae, his newest case manager, is probably going to cry in relief when this is finally over. Solomon, his paralegal, is probably going to cry in despair. All of that work, and for what? To an outsider, the nature of Nick’s job is winning by losing well, and that may very well be the best way to explain it to a laymammal, but it’s still annoying.

A bit of careful staring at the back of Hopps’ head and a few cups of water keep Nick occupied until the foremammal reads the verdict: guilty on all counts. As though it would have been anything else.

After Hopps is finished packing away her tablet and paper files and Nick is finished briefing Handle on What Happens Now That You Done Hecked Up, he lengthens his stride to catch up with her. “Ms. Hopps.”

She stops, ears shooting straight up, before turning to him, clasping her case (it’s still the old brown one) in front of her. “Yes?”

They haven’t talked much since their first case together, aside from their chance meeting in a grocery store and a couple of bizarre flirty texts. It’s a little weird, but lately he’s been thinking about the other Nick and wondering where that went. He suspects he wonders because Ruth, his mother, has been trying to set him up with vixens lately, now that she's forgiven him for being a dirty traitor (and again for getting the wrong acorns, and again for eating with the wrong fork, and again for wearing a striped tie on a Thursday). The last one, named Judith, was a gorgeous librarian who believed in the healing power of crystals, and Nick wanted to jump off the balcony halfway through dinner just to save himself from the mind-numbing conversation.

“I, uh.” They call him Silvertongue at the office when they think he’s gone for the day. Now, his silver tongue feels like lead. “If you don’t mind, I’d like to talk with you. You like coffee, don’t you?”

“Oh, my, Mr. Wilde,” she begins, paw on her chest. “Are you asking me on a date?”

And it’s that insufferable smirk again. How could anyone call  _him_ a smug bastard after getting an eyeful of this? “I don’t like to mix business with pleasure, Ms. Hopps. I have a question about the small mammals calculations, actually. I’ve read about the biting defense extensively, but I never managed to find the specific requirements for claws.”

She looks at him, then, not as an adversary, but as a colleague, and it makes him feel good. Very few others have this kind of respect for him, even in a professional setting, but this rabbit – someone he might have eaten, if they’d lived millennia ago – seems to not have gotten the memo. Her smile gentles, becomes genuine, and it transforms her from severe-and-vaguely-sexy to absolutely beautiful. “I usually go to Espress Yourself after a long day to get tea and unwind. If you meet me there at eight, I’ll bring the book I found the case study in. Maybe if you pay for my drink I’ll even loan it to you.”

“I’ll be there,” he assures her, and decides not to text Desirae for a status update.

* * *

He’s late, and he spends an unreasonable amount of time staring at the back of Hopps’ head again, watching the light card through her gray fur. To be fair, she  _is_ on the phone. He catches the end of her sentence –  _but if I haven’t burned down my apartment yet, Mom, it’s not going to happen –_ and realizes that mothers, no matter what species, are probably always the same. Good mothers, at least, not the walking pieces of garbage that need him to compartmentalize the abhorrent behavior that landed them with child abuse or neglect charges.

How does she do it? Deal with the realities of the world and still have faith in animalkind? It seems entirely counterintuitive.

He slides into the seat opposite her with the kind of smile he usually reserves for clients. He’s almost sure that her respect for him isn’t an act, but he’s not exactly willing to bet the farm on it, and anyway, they’re professional colleagues, not friends. Her grateful smile at him is a surprise, but not necessarily an unwelcome one.

_“Anyway,”_ she says into her phone, “my friend’s here now, so – yes, he’s real, I  _told_ you I – no! I’m not going to tell you his name, you’ll  _Muzzlebook_ stalk him and that’s – oh my gosh,  _goodbye.”_

Hopps tucks her phone into her bag and gives him a guilty look. “Sorry, Mr. Wilde, my parents worry.”

“As they should,” he replies. “You are, after all, getting coffee with a very attractive fox with whom you have an...adversarial relationship.”

“Not the first time that’s happened, so I doubt they’d bat an eye.” She shrugs and pulls a thick book out of her bag, both of which are obviously sized for mammals a bit bigger than she is. “It’s more that I’m basically a shut-in with no social life so automatically that must mean I’m going to do something dangerous, like slit my wrists or eat live spiders or, I don’t know, double park.”

“One of these things is not like the others,” he tells her, amused. “I’ll leave it to you to decide which one I mean.”

“Well, slitting your wrists is a risky behavior with minimal reward, a more extreme version of double parking. Eating live spiders is gross, but even the venomous ones aren’t poisonous, so...oh.” She ducks her head. “You were kidding.”

She thought he was being serious? And reasoned it out right in front of him? That is possibly the most adorable thing he’s seen all year. He leans his chin on his palm, flutters his lashes, and says, “No, please, do go on, Carrots. I’d love to know your conclusion.”

“My conclusion is  _here’s your book,_ Mr. Wilde, and don’t call me Carrots.”

“It’s not my fault it suits you.” He reads the cover and frowns. “This is a textbook.”

“I know. I had to buy it.” Her smile returns, and it’s so different from the one she uses in the courtroom and in negotiations that he wonders which one is the façade. One of them has to be.

“So did I, or at least they told us we had to buy it, but the upperclassmammals said it was supplementary so I didn’t. How was this allowed to be admitted?”

She shrugs, finishing a small sip from her WORLD’S OKAYEST GIRLFRIEND travel mug. She may have said she wanted tea, but according to his nose, it’s coffee in there. “It wasn’t. That’s where I found the case study. I used the citations to build a trail that led me to an actual transcript down in the archives. In 1896, River Fangworthy got into a scrap with Thomas Ruffstein – no relation to Paul Ruffstein, as in College of Law – and the case got national attention when the Court defined what a small mammal is. They ruled that Fangworthy was a quarter-inch too tall in comparison to Ruffstein to be classified as a small mammal and therefore her claws were still considered deadly weapons. There’s some math involved in close cases like this, but usually the small mammals clause is used in more obvious situations. If  _you_ were up against, say, an elephant, nobody would question your right to use your claws.”

“Pretty sure that’s not true. Plenty would. Lucas Woolworth might have an aneurysm.”

“Okay, but anyone with any sense of our laws would understand. Lucas Woolworth is an idiot on purpose, so we can’t really put him in the same class of mammals whose opinions matter.”

He smiles, unable to hide it in the face of her assessment. She really doesn’t pull her punches, does she? “I assume you’re still not keen on him.”

“I have this fantasy,” she says behind her mug, “that  _he’s_ the one behind some of the cold cases in the ZPD archives, and the officer to catch him is someone he  _hates._ And I get to prosecute him. And he languishes in prison for the rest of his life for all the...I don’t know, murders or something.”

“A life sentence?”

“With no parole.”

He raises a brow. “Not a death penalty?”

At this, she snorts and waves her paw. “Come on, how is that justice? It isn’t even punishment. He gets to die before he’s properly shamed? Death isn’t a punishment for anybody’s misdeeds. It’s actually just torture to the mammals who loved the deceased.”

“I suppose,” he says noncommittally, already thumbing through her book. He’s always gotten by with Westlaw and a decent memory, but he has to admit he would have fared better with a list of precedent-setting cases bound together. “Do you still have  _all_ your textbooks?”

“I mean, I’ll sell them eventually. I just haven’t gotten around to it.”

Right, sure. And she picked out her own travel mug, too.

“It’s okay to be a hoarder, you know” he teases. “Honestly nothing wrong with it.”

She looks at him. He allows her to do so, but it’s alarming, how attentive she is. He fights off the urge to cross his arms defensively, because she’s only looking. Quietly, she says, “I’m glad you asked me here tonight. I was hoping I’d get to talk to you anyway.”

“About what, exactly,” he asks warily.

“Well.” She takes another, longer sip of her coffee. At least he’s not the only one who’s nervous. “You see, I...I’ve been thinking about that case we had together last year. I was unhappy with...not the outcome, necessarily, but the charges that were available to us.”

“Because you couldn’t charge her with an act of terror,” he surmises. That bothered him, too, and he’s not surprised that someone like Hopps would let it eat at her.

“Right. It’s not that she wasn’t a terrorist, but it’s...incredibly difficult to get mammals to see it that way. She was one of their own. They said she snapped, they said she went rogue...I pushed for it. I said she should be charged with terrorism because her actions were  _designed_ to inspire terror. Nobody would do it. It’s like if you don’t have fangs or you’re not from a different country, you can’t be a terrorist. And I’ve been thinking that maybe it’s time to update the definition through legislation.”

“I can see your reasoning,” he says neutrally. “Why come to me?”

She looks away. “Everybody hates me. I’m the stupid hick diversity hire who probably just traded sex for grades. Mr. Partridge told me as much when I brought up the idea to him. He s-said I should be grateful to have a job at all, considering history. But you-”

“Wait.” He watches her play with her paws on the table. “You’re telling me that our representative said that to you? Out loud?”

“Is it really so surprising? Bunnies are a joke, especially after Officer Savage’s death. He was just saying what everybody thinks. That’s not the point, though. The point is,  _you_ are not a bunny. You’re young enough that you should understand how important it is not to mire ourselves in the status quo, but you’re established enough that Partridge might listen to you if you have the weight of a petition behind you, and you’re smart enough to know the right things to say at the right times to get mammals to  _hear_ you. Plus, I  _may_ have gone back to chat with Professor Blossom right after the Bellwether trial, and I  _may_ have mentioned you, and she  _may_ have entertained me for fifteen minutes with her irritated grumbling, so I know you’re solid. I don’t know if you remember Professor Blossom, but-”

“Complaining is a compliment.” He leans forward. “So you did your research and decided  _I,_ a fox and a  _defense attorney,_ would be the best choice to help you with a project that could – in a few years’ time, if it goes well – make my job harder?”

Her glare is a thing of beauty, really. “No! I wanted Salinger, but he wouldn’t listen to me. Um. But I knew he wouldn’t, and you were my second choice, so the answer to your question is also yes, if you want to get technical.”

“Salinger...from the  _bankruptcy_ court? Why the hell would you want  _him?”_

“Have you read his opinions?” Nick gives her a look he hopes expresses, very clearly, that he wouldn’t be caught dead reading bankruptcy opinions. She rolls her eyes. “He chooses every word carefully. He’s been in law for decades, too, so he’s familiar with everybody who’s anybody. He’s prey, so nobody would try to question his motives this soon after the Bellwether case, and before he decided to waste his time as a bankruptcy judge he was a civil rights attorney. I thought he’d be perfect. But I guess the idea is always going to be stupid if it comes from me.”

“Why did you get into law,” he asks curiously. “You had to have known that this would happen. You had to have known that you’d be met with scorn and roadblocks at every turn. You could have done anything else. Why did you go to law school?”

“I went to school for a lot of reasons, most of which I’m not comfortable sharing with a stranger. But one of them – the only one that matters in this conversation – was that I don’t think it’s right to let species decide who someone is or what they can do. So what if everybody thinks I’m a joke? If nobody does anything to change it, then it won’t change. Sitting around waiting for society to change its mind is what generation after generation of bunnies has done. There’s this culture of...of fear, that one wrong move will wind back the clock and we’ll find ourselves...you know. Livestock. But I want to make the world a better place, Mr. Wilde. If that means withstanding mistreatment, I’ll do it.”

“That’s weird,” he says bluntly, “but I guess I can respect it.”

She laughs lightly and puts her mug on the table, to the left of her so there’s nothing between them. “So will you do it? Will you help? If it helps sweeten the pot, I’ll buy you a coffee  _and_ let you borrow that book.”

He examines her. She’s still wearing that sweet little grin that makes her look more like a garter snake  _(don’t even_ think  _the word cute, she’ll probably smell it)_ and less like a shark. That optimism of hers is going to get her hurt, and he’d rather not see her cry. Still, he finds himself offering his paw and saying, “Well, Ms. Hopps, you sure know how to strike a deal. I’ll do it on the condition that we can drop the formalities. I really hate them.”

“Okay. Okay, Nick,” she replies, and grips his paw so tightly it hurts, probably as much as her cheeks are going to hurt after she drops that blinding smile.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In another story, a reviewer told me that some of my terminology was off-putting. Although it goes against my idea of Zootopian animal culture, I agree that it probably is awkward. Henceforth, I shall use the word “personal” where I used to use “animal” (e.g., “it’s personal to me,” “my personal life”) and incorporating the curse words I use in my own life. I won’t generally use “bitch” or “ass,” because obviously those would be speciesist, but “fuck” and “shit” are fair game. Not that I’ll be using them often, but still.


	2. Swamp Water Waltz

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Our favorite lawyers have dinner at the Devil’s Bayou and discuss the best way to dance through the pitfalls of self-serving politicians, precedence, and common law.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a little getting-to-know-you chapter in preparation for the meat of the story.

Nick’s calendar has a two-hour time frame blocked off that only says “Nick out Hopps @ Devil’s Bayou.” It seems to be the only thing anyone has wanted to talk about since he put it on there, which probably means it was unwise to do it, but his staff needs to know _not_ to schedule appointments during his errand as much as he needs to remember to go. It’s kind of a joke around the office that he’s having an illicit affair with opposing counsel, because he – _apparently_ – gets a goofy little smile every time she texts, but he can’t help being excited. Helping mammals is what he went to law school for. A project of this magnitude will take years for legislators to complete, and it’s possible his name will never be attached to it. But defense attorneys don’t get accolades, they get shit done. As much as it pains him to admit, in this case, participation is its own reward.

The Devil’s Bayou is a Cajun joint, made all the more appealing by its lack of kitsch. It looks more like a dive bar than the best restaurant in the Swamplands, and he can’t separate some of the scents coming from the kitchen, but it’s perfect background noise for his meeting with Judy. Either this is the exact worst time to visit, or this isn’t a popular spot, because there are only two other tables filled out of the fifteen they have.

He can see the tips of Judy’s ears sticking up over the high-backed booth and he makes his way to her table, one of the five “mid-sized” tables in the restaurant. Most of the mammals who settled the Swamplands are on the smaller side, but diversity laws require that all businesses with the means to reliably serve all mammals of all sizes – unless the business is licensed as “niche” or otherwise clearly states that it is tailored toward specific clientele – must do so. Technically it’s still legal for a local business owner to display a sign stating that they have a right to refuse service to anyone, but after the Bellwether fiasco there has been an uptick in civil rights cases and most businesses don’t want to be associated with that kind of speciesism. It’s superficial change, but it’s a start.

“Nick! I’m glad you could make it,” Judy says once he comes into view. She gestures to the table before her. “Take a seat, please. I hope you don’t mind, I ordered my drink, but I only got you water.”

He shrugs. “I _did_ tell you last week that I’m not much of a drinker. Thanks. So, do we want to start work before or after the food?”

“I’d prefer to get started right away, but I’ve been accused of jumping the gun in all things, so I’ll leave that up to you.”

He takes her in. She’s a funny one; Nick has never seen her look tired. Granted, they’ve only met muzzle-to-muzzle a dozen times tops, but he sometimes sees her at the courthouse, and she’s been at the grocery store at the same time he has on several occasions, although they’ve not spoken. He realizes now that she _does_ look tired, but her face doesn’t read that way. It’s in the lines of her body, the way her ears tilt back. Nick remembers those days – when he thought he had to be invincible and unsinkable if he wanted to get taken seriously. He remembers when he sunk for the first time and the world didn’t end.

“Why don’t we eat, maybe talk a bit, and then get down to business,” he suggests. “We’ve been texting a lot about the project, but I don’t know much about _you.”_

“What’s there to know? You had me pegged from the beginning. I know you did.”

“Not entirely.” He looks her over again, trying not to come across as a creep. If half the things he hears about Michael Antworth are true, she’s got to be sick of that. He takes a sip of his water and gathers his thoughts. “I think when we met I saw what I wanted to see, and you wanted me to see you that way. I saw you as a young upstart affirmative actioned to the top. I saw you as an inconvenience Gesa wanted to get rid of. I saw you as driven, ambitious, and...well, the kind of mammal who’d kill and eat whoever got in her way.”

She shrugs. “You’re not wrong. I’m not the first one to get funneled from school to that office, but I was hired with the express understanding that one wrong move would get me booted. The Bellwether case was a fluke, and I needlessly gambled my career on it. I told Gesa if I messed it up I wouldn’t just leave her office, I’d _quit law,_ just to get my coworkers off my back. And I don’t have the kind of hard personality that she does, so I have to make up for it in...um, creative editing. I don’t have to _intend_ to chew you up and spit out your bones, I just have to convince you that I will.”

“Ugh, you’re such a lawyer.”

“You’re darn tootin’ I’m a lawyer. I get to sit at the table in the courtroom now even when I’m not randomly lead on the case.”

“And you call her Gesa now, so that’s something,” he muses, watching over the rim of his glass as her ears dip. She has the typical resting bunny face, an unfortunately bland expression that only varies if she outwardly and enthusiastically emotes, but her ears are expressive enough. That’s good to know. Nick hasn’t interacted with many bunnies aside from Judy and Malcolm Coates, but who knows what will happen in the future?

“Apparently the formality was just another thing in the huge pile of Reasons Not To Take Judy Hopps Seriously, so I dropped it in-office,” she tells him blunty. Ouch.

“If you were on my side,” he replies with a smirk, “you could have your _own_ practice. Avoid all that pesky disrespect. Oh. Oh my _God,_ I want to watch you and Gesa go at it.”

She raises an eyebrow. “Um. Are you trying to get back at me for those texts? I said I was sorry.”

“Not...ew, Carrots, I mean I want to see you _argue._ I bet you could get her to yell, or at least do something other than drone.”

She snorts. “I doubt it. Prevailing theory in the office is that she’s secretly a robot. I don’t know if she even sleeps. She must, but I get demanding emails at three in the morning and she always beats me to the office, no matter how early I go in. But enough about my mechanical boss, who is Nick Wilde?”

“Why don’t you give me a guess,” he suggests, because he wants to know what she sees when she looks at him, and because she’s been strangely reticent and he doesn’t want to be the sucker who gets taken advantage of.

“I…” She frowns thoughtfully and sips her drink. It smells very hopsy. “I’ve heard a lot about you professionally. I know you’re remarkably good at your job, for a – relative – newbie, and you’re funny when you want to be. I know your bar number and career history, that we went to the same university, and that you’re 34. I think you’re a nice mammal. But I wouldn’t say that I know much about you at all.”

Nick’s about to offer something superficial when a well-groomed opossum approaches their table and chirps, “Judy! Aw, you brought a date! What can I get for ya? Same as always?”

“You know what I like, Darling,” Judy replies – is she _flirting? –_ with a quick, sweet little grin. “It’s his first time, though.”

“Yeah, I have to admit, I didn’t know this place existed,” he tells the server. She turns to look at him. Oh, Judy wasn’t flirting; the opossum’s name is Darling. Huh.

“Well, Jude here’s over the moon for our jambalaya. I know plenty of mammals are vegetarian, so we can get it to ya with or without shrimp, and all our sausages are black bean instead of turkey. Ah, what else-”

“I’ll have what she’s having,” Nick interjects, because he doesn’t want to spend all night deciding between sixteen dishes he’s never tried.

“I’ll get that out to ya, then.”

Nick turns back to Judy, who looks amused. He raises a brow. “What?”

“You’re very expressive when you talk. I sort of thought that was a professional affectation.”

“That’s another benefit to owning your own practice. You don’t have to be emotionless if you want to get ahead. There’s a big difference between not letting anyone see that they’ve gotten to you and not letting anyone see that you’re not made of cogs and grease,” he replies, not very interested in how she came to her conclusion. Nick enjoys the freedom of casual emotion. He likes being expressive, as long as he’s not expressing anything that might get him (or his clients) into trouble.

“I’m not interested in defense. I never have been.” She peers at him. “Did you always want to do what you do?”

“Mostly. I went through a brief phase where I considered the prosecution side of criminal law, but the antipsychotics took care of that,” he teases. She doesn’t react except to take another sip of her drink. “Were you always planning on doing this?”

“If you can believe it, I started out thinking I was going to do civil. Torts,” she tells him with a vaguely self-deprecating expression and a shrug.

“Really?” He raises an eyebrow. “Really, _really?”_

“Yes, _really.”_

“Why?”

“It was...I wasn’t old enough to follow the case when it happened, but remember Liebuck v. McDuck’s?”

He snorts, about to respond, but she gives him a pointed look. “See? Your first response is to laugh, but it wasn’t a laughing matter. She could have _died._ That – what they did, the way they spun it – it was reprehensible. I spent my childhood really believing that there was some moron who got millions of dollars for driving recklessly, but when I did a report on it in middle school-”

“You did a report on a decade-old civil suit in middle school?”

“Yes, and was teased for being a nerd, but they’re all stuck in Bunnyburrow and I’m an attorney, so who’s laughing now? Anyway, I looked up the facts of the case and I was appalled. When I decided to go to law school instead of...following another dream, I thought of how nice it would be to represent individuals like Stella Liebuck, and more importantly, abuse victims seeking damages against their aggressors – you know, _the ones who get away with it_ and never get _charged_ and – well, anyway, my third semester at law school changed my mind. Professor Mallard was one of the only professors who really encouraged me and believed me when I said I wasn’t looking for an MRS degree.”

“Mallard...I don’t remember having a Mallard,” he says, trying not to think too hard about the MRS comment. Nick saw plenty of raised eyebrows during law school, but nobody ever questioned his dedication. Then again, he entered with friends, and there were plenty of foxes in law even back then. Bunnies in law are still nonexistent, except for Judy. He knows, because he checked.

“I think he started teaching the year I started at P-Ruff. He was this…” She laughs lightly. “You should have seen us standing next to each other. He was big even for a grizzly, but he would make us _argue_ with him during office hours, so I got over my fear of getting stepped on pretty quickly. He’d take whatever position was opposite the preference and we’d either argue or walk out and not get our questions asked. It was like a small claims hearing every time we wanted information outside of class. And I realized how much I liked that; I’d have to do research before, but in the end it was usually down to quick thinking and oration. I wanted to be in a courtroom; I didn’t want to push a pen and get monetary settlements! I wanted to make a _difference,_ not just for individuals, but for society! I don’t believe in the idea that we’re “meant” to do something, like divine providence or whatever, but I do believe that this is the field of law that suits me best. I love it, even when it’s hard. Especially when it’s hard.”

“You really love your job, don’t you?”

“Don’t _you?”_

He nods. “Of course. I’m just surprised that you do, after hearing about your workplace situation. They didn’t even give you a profile until after that first case.”

She waves a paw, clearing the air of the unpleasant idea. “As much as I complain about it, I’m grateful for the adversity. Or...not grateful, exactly. In an ideal world, it wouldn’t exist for me and you or anyone else, but the fact is, it does exist and species helps inform what mammals think about each other even if it’s not fair or not even relevant to the situation. I think that having to prove myself will make me a better attorney in the long run.”

Nick doesn’t comment on how difficult speciesism made high school and undergrad. He doesn’t comment on how speciesism can sometimes make something as mundane as shopping for new suits an unpleasant experience. She already knows how frustrating it is, and _chooses_ to think like this anyway. Her optimism is either going to catapult her to unexpected heights or get her burned. “If you say so.”

“If I’m wrong, I’ll have had a good run anyway. Oh, hey, I know you said you’re not much of a drinker, but do you want to try this? Liddell Brewery is my great-aunt’s gig. From my mom’s side.”

He cocks his head to the side, considering. “You mean Hopps doesn’t do hops?”

She pushes the glass closer to him. “Har, har.”

Nick takes her glass and sips a tiny amount. He’s not a beer fan, but he’ll try it anyway – _nope,_ no, not in a million years, _oh God._ She laughs as he splutters and shoves her glass back at her, and he shakes his head. “That’s not – you can _taste_ the – is that even legal?”

“Of course!” She beams at him. “IPA isn’t for everybody. You should try their oatmeal stout if you’re more into dark ales. Or don’t. I don’t mean to be a salesmammal. I just grew up on this stuff.”

“On alcoholic beverages, which are not legal in Animalia until the age of 21?”

She rolls her eyes and retorts, “I mean, I never had a full glass or anything, but I grew up in the country. I honestly didn’t know there _was_ a legal drinking age until I came here for college. But don’t tell me _you_ never had a sip of something as a teen.”

“Not until I look up the statute of limitations,” he quips, drawing a laugh out of her. She has a nice laugh when she lets it go. He wants to hear it again – to _cause_ it again – but he can’t think of anything that wouldn’t fall flat, so he stays quiet, and then their food comes, so he focuses on the absolute _symphony_ of flavors that is jambalaya.

* * *

Once the plates are cleared away and they’re settled with something that smells like coffee and tastes like a little slice of heaven, Judy opens the cover on her tablet and opens something from Zoogle Docs. It’s the bare bones of a proposal, and it’s solid, but Nick can see that it was probably hastily-written between meetings. He can relate, but it’s not something he’d ever put out for public consumption.

She must be able to read something in his expression, because she says, “I haven’t had a lot of time. Work ends and my brain just shuts down. This crap took me three weeks to write, and it’s less than 1,000 words.”

“And I have nothing at all,” he says with a shrug, “because being an attorney is hard work. We’re both out of our element here.”

“For some reason I thought it would be easy. Theory always makes me more confident than I should be.”

He snorts. “Okay, _now_ you sound like an attorney. I think – aside from the actual writing, we both know that we’re good at that part – we really ought to discuss what _exactly_ needs to be said. We’re both trial lawyers, Judy. There’s a difference between mammals like us and litigators who resolve all of their cases through paperwork.”

That’s really the essence of what makes Nick’s job so hard. Law as a concept is easy. Each case is fundamentally the same; the time frames are the same, the paperwork required is the same. Pretrial negotiations can be a breeze. A good paralegal can do a case from start to finish, aside from appearing at the mandatory hearings. But all of that changes when a mammal decides to be a trial lawyer. Perhaps only a pawful of cases actually go to trial every year, but the ones that do _change_ Nick’s point of view. It’s not just about law anymore; it’s about persuasion. It’s about saying the right things at the right times to get a favorable result, and yes, it’s about public perception.

In the public eye, Nick _always_ loses his cases, and that’s sometimes hard to deal with. Criminals come to him thinking that he’ll use his silver tongue to make their charges magically disappear. That’s not how it works, though, and the smart ones leave good Yip reviews, but the stupid ones tend to be unmitigated jerks. Nick knows he’s good at what he does, but his commitment to _being_ a trial lawyer means the paperwork tends to get delegated to his paralegal and case manager.

“Yes, I agree. This is just a template I created for a project in law school; half of this is still just lorem ipsum. I know we want, overall, to change the meaning of terrorism – or, not change it, but concretely define it – to include domestic supremacists, and therefore create appropriate legal consequences, but how does that look? How do we get there from here? Especially with all the pushback this is going to receive. We don’t just need to write it, we need to sell it. That’s _why_ I chose you; you look at things from a persuasive perspective.”

He frowns thoughtfully. “Well, we can’t let it look like what it is, for one thing. You and I know this is about Dawn Bellwether and the prey supremacist agenda. But Partridge won’t want to sponsor a bill like that. We need to make it tight enough that they can’t fuck around with it too much in negotiations, but loose enough that it can be applied to _all_ supremacy groups...and depending on who can classify “supremacy,” that might not be in anybody’s best interest in the long run. I mean this is the kind of thing that requires looking years and years ahead. Are we writing something that’s going to hurt the same mammals we’re trying to protect?”

“There are non-discrimination policies in place to cut down on species bias…”

“Yeah? And how’d that work out for you when you first got hired? How’d it work out for Jack Savage?” She looks away. Nick didn’t mean to be a jerk, but it’s important to discuss this kind of thing. What they’re getting into isn’t a local ordinance. This is something that can, if passed, have national consequences. More gently, he continues, “You’re not wrong. In an ideal world, that would be enough. But we don’t live in an ideal world, Carrots. We live in a messed-up world full of messed-up mammals who don’t think about the bigger picture so long as it doesn’t affect them. That’s why we need to be so careful. I’m not saying we shouldn’t do this. I’m just saying it’s not going to be easy, and it’s not going to be quick, and we need to anticipate possible twists.”

“I just…” Her ears droop down behind her and her shoulders hunch. “It’s not fair. It’s not fair and I get so _mad_ when I think about it. Don’t you? I mean I know she was your client and all, but the fact that a monster like Dawn Bellwether got off so _lightly_ makes me want to scream. Or hit something. Or both.”

“Without violating attorney-client privilege,” he answers quietly, “yeah, of course it pisses me off. She was unsettling. She was tiny, and basically harmless next to my natural weapons, but I didn’t like being alone with her. And her sentence was a joke, even _if_ she’ll be there for the rest of her life. It sets a bad precedent. It sucks. You’re not wrong to be mad. But it’s not something we can do anything about if we let feelings get in the way. There’s a reason civil rights attorneys don’t do stuff like this very often. Passion certainly has a place in law, but no place in legislation.”

“So we think like the stuffed-shirts who’ll be passing this for us. It can’t be that hard; the relevant data is out there and we can figure out how they think, crack open their skulls, by going over old decisions. We’ll skip over Partridge individually and get to the heart of what Congress wants.” Her eyes widen. “Oh, sweet cheese and crackers. I’m going to be researching until I’m 50.”

“Nah. We’ll still have to do a lot of research, but we can group them pretty easily based on history, area, political party... everybody wants something. We can’t make them _all_ happy, but if we make sure to include Partridge in the group of mammals we _do_ make happy, then we have a reasonable chance of success.”

“Maybe so. It’s not actually that hard to figure out what somebody wants with the right evidence, and we’re attorneys. That’s what we  _do:_ we dig up evidence and use it to become the opposition.”

Well, if that doesn’t sum up a large portion of _his_ job, he’s hard-pressed to find something else that does. Not bad for a prosecutor. He takes another sip of his drink and watches Judy’s nose twitch. Her eyes are naturally wide, not very helpful in shedding the “cute” label, but seeing her in action has forever ruined that image for Nick. She brings her own cup to her lips and sucks it down, eyelids fluttering. He wonders, inanely, if she’s always liked coffee, or if it became a necessity in law school, as was the case for him.

“I think,” she says after a spell of comfortable silence, “this calls for a spreadsheet. I can do one on my tablet, but I wouldn’t know what to put in it without research...and I don’t have data on this, just Wi-Fi.”

He shrugs. “Well, if nothing else, at least we had a nice night and found out we can work together. We’re on the same page, Judy. As negative as I’ve been, it’s only because I don’t want this yanked from us and distorted. You know that, right?”

“Yeah. Yeah, I know.” She smiles sweetly. “Thank you, Nick. If I had a dollar for every time I’ve gone off half-cocked, I’d have...uh, some dollars. Too many.”

“And if _I_ had a dollar for every time I haven’t done something I wanted to do because I talked myself _out_ of it, I’d probably have just as many. It may take us months to get this thing written and edited, but we’ll get it. I think we’ll make a good team. Besides, you have a good eye; you’d make a pretty good defense attorney, from what I’ve seen.”

“Ugh, how dare you,” she retorts over the rim of her cup, and he can’t help but smile. This is an odd partnership – possibly even a friendship, if he can manage it – but it might just take them places they’d never go otherwise.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Liebeck v. McDonald’s Restaurants is the “hot coffee case.” It truly was a repulsive thing. In case you’re one of the 2 people who’ve never heard of this case, the rundown is that in 1992, Stella Liebeck, a 70-year-old woman, got coffee at a McDonald’s drive-thru. Her grandson, who was driving, parked the car in a lot so that she could safely open the cup and pour cream and sugar into it. While they were parked she accidentally spilled her coffee on herself...getting third-degree burns and racking up tens of thousands of dollars in medical debt. She filed a suit to cover the cost of her hospital bills, offering to settle for $20,000, and McDonald’s, being a giant corporation, told her they’d give her no more than $800, and if she didn’t like it she could stick it. Well, her family decided that McDonald’s could actually get fucked up the ass with a big juicy jury trial, thanks. In 1994, a jury (after hearing the evidence, including the facts that McD’s policy was to keep the coffee at 180 degrees Fahrenheit and that there were 700 prior instances of reports and suits about dangerously hot coffee, many of which McDonald’s had quietly settled) found McDonald’s to have fault and Liebeck to be partially at fault, and although the ultimate settlement was confidential, Liebeck presumably walked away with enough to pay her hospital bills. However, McDonald’s PR team was brilliant, and spun the story in the media as some idiot spilling coffee on herself while driving and winning millions in a frivolous suit, thereby indirectly warning individual citizens off filing civil suits against corporations. I legit grew up picturing the overweight white woman who wants to speak to your manager, dammit. Almost overnight, this permanently-disfigured, nearly-bankrupt old lady was turned into a joke. There are two lessons to be learned here: never underestimate corporate greed, and always drink your coffee black.


	3. Allies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which lawyer stuff happens, probably.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was an absolute jackass to write. JLZ is getting way too technical for my little uneducated brain to really conquer. I had 2 whole cases mapped out, but I just can't; I've never even stepped foot inside a law office before, let alone gone to law school. There's only so much research can do for you. Therefore, going forward - as much as I would love for this to be a Law AU - this will be a _Nick and Judy as Lawyers_ AU. Which seems like it's the same, but trust me, it isn't.

Nick doesn’t like acknowledging it, but he sees a disproportionate amount of foxes come through his office. It’s not that foxes are out committing more crimes than other mammals, it’s just that...they’re _expected_ to commit more crimes, and the increased attention mixed with increased suspicion means that the ones who _do_ commit crimes are more likely to be caught and charged with something.

Finnick Furson is a fox, a fennec to be precise. He’s also, without a doubt, not guilty of the charges against him. That’s a relatively new thing; most of his clients, no matter what species, actually committed at least one of the crimes they’ve been charged with. It’s Nick’s job to do right by them within the boundaries of the law, not to twist the law into something unrecognizable, but in this case...something smells weird, and it isn’t his client.

“I’m tellin’ you,” says Finnick, tugging at the front of his black shirt, “I might be a piece of shit, but I ain’t a reckless driver. I ain’t _dumb enough_ to be, especially around cops.”

And Nick believes him, not because he’s a fellow fox, but because the evidence doesn’t fit him. He’s looked over the indictment and the police report, both provided by his client; he doesn’t know what’s going on, but if he didn’t know better, he’d think his client was being framed. It would be political suicide to do so, though, especially this soon after the “Night Howler crisis.” Are the police really so incompetent as to charge a random fox with negligent zoicide, even though the car was too big for Finnick to be driving and the only vehicle registered in his name is an older wheelchair van? Nick doesn’t think so. After they raked Chief Bogo over the coals for his part in the clusterfuck that got Jack Savage killed and eaten, the old buffalo’s been hyper-vigilant.

“I believe you,” he says.

“You gotta say that.”

“I really don’t have to.” He meets Finnick’s eyes, hoping to convey serious resolve. “I _believe_ you. It’s on the prosecution to prove your guilt beyond reasonable doubt, and there’s no way in hell this evidence will be sufficient. I will meet every stupid point with an answer. I promise. This can’t even get to court. If I know Gesa, her eyes have already rolled out of her head.”

“Well, shit. You ain’t kidding.”

“No, I’m not.” Nick pauses and adds, “A word of advice, though: don’t call yourself a piece of shit.”

“Spare me the big brother speech,” says Finnick, closed off and wary.

Nick just laughs. “I’m not about to lecture you on your life choices. It just looks terrible in front of the opposition...and the Commissioner...and the Judge...and a jury, if we accidentally jump into a bizarre alternate universe where the evidence makes sense. For the duration of this case, you’re a saint.”

“Say…” Finnick frowns, a distant, unsettling look on his face. “Say you didn’t believe me. What would you tell me?”

“Finnick, if you’re confessing to-”

The irritability returns instantly. “No, I ain’t. I just ain’t stupid enough to think that a dead rabbit and a disgraced sheep’s enough to keep me from gettin’ framed, and I wanna know my options.”

Nick nods in understanding. The law is supposed to protect everyone, but justice is an ideal, not a certainty. “I’d suggest a plea in abeyance. Essentially, you’d be pleading guilty, and after a certain amount of time of no criminal activity, your case would be dismissed.”

It’s a little more complicated than that, but the details aren’t important at this juncture. There’s no way in hell Gesa will allow this travesty to continue. He’s not sure how the charges have stood as it is. He’ll have to get her on the phone after Finnick leaves his office, because this is ridiculous.

“Well,” says the small fox, “I got no faith in anything, but I guess that’s better’n going to jail.”

“You’re not going to jail,” Nick promises, because he knows it’s true.

“We’ll see,” returns Finnick. Nick understands – can’t blame him at all for being doubtful – but still, the hit to his professional pride stings more than he thought it would. His first truly _not guilty_ client, and he’s not even inclined to trust a fellow fox.

Judy would say he just has to prove himself, which he knows from her optimistic texts about their spreadsheet. That rabbit is going to kill him with sweetness, and on _that_ note, he’d better stop thinking about her lest he allow Finnick to see the absolutely _stupid_ grin he can feel threatening to spread across his face.

* * *

Nick edges through the door, worried that one wrong move will send the room spilling in on itself. He may have been wrong about Judy being a _hoarder,_ but his picture of a house overflowing with books and cutesy knick-knacks wasn’t exactly off-base, either.

She lives in what could be called a studio apartment, if the speaker were generous enough to ignore the lack of kitchen and the communal bathroom. Nick’s more inclined to call it a hole. This place doesn’t even have a _closet;_ instead, Judy has purchased a pop-up closet with six pressed suits hanging on flimsy wire hangers, a metal tub on wheels that probably holds her underthings while doubling as a chair for her oversized desk, a large plastic bin with no lid that holds various items like free weights and rock climbing gear, and an honestly terrifying amount of bookshelves. She has some nailed to the wall, two standing bookshelves near the end of her bed, and even her microwave is perched on a wheelie bookshelf. Much of the space on the shelves above her desk is reserved for paper files rather than books, but she _does_ have two novels on there.

 _Crime and Punishment_ and _Invitation to a Beheading._ Of course. Because why wouldn’t she be just a crazy mix of contradictions?

“Sorry about the mess,” she says, waving. He shuts the door behind him carefully and looks at her, wondering how she lives like this. She’s seated cross-legged on the bed inside a ring of papers, her tablet face-up on her lap. He’s not sure whether or not it’s impolite to look at a bunny’s fluff, so he turns his eyes away from the low-cut racerback tank top and toward her garbage.

Take-out. Frozen dinners. Snack wrappers. She must use that exercise equipment often; if _he_ ate like that, he’d have the attractive, meat-on-the-bones, this-guy-can-afford-to-splurge-style plumpness that her lean physique misses by a long shot. He wonders how she’d react to a home-cooked dinner –

(He’s not going to think about that.)

“You should see my place,” he jokes. He sits on the wheeled stool with his back to her desk, which is cluttered with sticky notes and a big desktop computer. That CRT monitor would look right at home in an elementary school circa 1997, and the keyboard was made for mammals twice her size. _Wow._

“Maybe someday I will,” she returns, and he’s not sure if she’s joking or serious. He’s not sure if he wants that or not. It would be less awkward than these cramped quarters, but he’s beginning to wonder if his colleagues aren’t right about him: he’s got, _maybe,_ a little crush on her. Just a little one, though. Nothing to worry about. Not even something to question.

She gestures toward the mini-fridge cleverly hidden beneath her desk and says, “You’re welcome to whatever’s in there. I know I’ve got some Liddell ales, a salad – well, not really, just the dried cranberries are left, I hate those – and…uh...”

“...and nothing,” he finishes, amused, peeking into the fridge. He grabs a bottle of peach cream ale, which sounds vaguely promising, and inspects the lid. Is this one of the ones you need a bottle opener for, or one of those fake-out screw-top bottles that make you look like an idiot? He can never tell.

Helpfully, but without much expression, she says, “Bottle opener’s a magnet on the side.”

That takes care of that, then. The magnet is – _wow –_ a novelty toy, a bright red nondescript mammal of some kind whose erect penis serves the dual purpose of looking unsettling and opening bottles. He’s not a 12-year-old boy anymore, so he doesn’t laugh when he levers the top off. Really. Any amusement in his voice is imaginary when he asks, “So, why does a successful young legal professional live in a place whose code violations probably need to be counted in groups?”

“Hey, don’t knock the apartment. It was my first one. I’m _quite_ sentimental. Also I’m almost never here, and anyway, I’ll probably be paying off student loans until I die.”

“You didn’t get a scholarship?”

“Yeah, I did,” she acknowledges, looking down at the tablet again. Splitting her attention. He’s not surprised at how much he dislikes that; he’s always thrived on attention and social interaction. “To undergrad, anyway. I was part of this...competition thing. I didn’t even think I’d make it in; it was for minorities only, and I didn’t realize at the time that bunnies are considered that. Bunnyburrow is like 88% bunnies, so to a teenager, it felt like bunnies were the dominant species, and I _knew_ about the whole protected class thing, but it was irrelevant in my hometown. But anyway, Gideon – a friend of mine – he was my research partner, so we qualified _double._ And we both won scholarships, he just declined his. It turns out, he was just trying to help me get one. He didn’t care about college.”

Her smile is so soft, even as she examines the tablet screen. He wonders if any of his former project partners ever smile like that about him. Doubtful. “Sounds like a good friend.”

“He is. We video chat every once in a while, but we both have our own lives now. Anyhow, law school was a different thing altogether. P-Ruff is expensive, and I didn’t get a scholarship. Had to borrow money just to _apply._ It wasn’t anything wrong with my grades, I just...wasn’t good enough, I guess. To qualify. And, you know, financial aid being structured the way it is…”

Nick qualified for a grant even aside from the hefty scholarship for law school, but he supposes that her parents were wealthy enough that she squeaked over the line. “Student loans are a killer, I’ve heard.”

“And not even dischargeable in bankruptcy.” She grins. “Speaking of, I talked to Salinger’s clerk today. We get coffee sometimes. She warned me off you. Said you’re _emotionally unavailable,_ and...how did she put it? A _heartbreaker.”_

“I wouldn’t have any idea,” he muses aloud with a furrowed brow. Heartbreaker, really? Emotionally _unavailable,_ he can see, but how many mammals would actually know that anyway? Only his mother, really, and maybe his coworkers.

Her impish smile grows. Nick has a bad feeling about this. “Do you remember Athena Redford? Perfect mask, big brown eyes, tail for days, almost too ginger to be real?”

“Vaguely. We had a lot of classes together, if I remember correctly. She... _wait.”_ His stomach flips a little as it all sinks in. “She was _hitting_ on me?”

“That’s what she says. You’re gonna break my heart, Nick,” she teases, “just like we’re juniors in college again.”

That semester was nerve-wracking. He lost fifteen pounds, which is far too much for a fox, and nearly ended up in the hospital, but he aced all of his classes. All that year, he had assumed that his classmates disliked him, and the stern-faced red panda who refused to loan him a pen once just blended into the crowd, only memorable because her tail managed to knock down her neighbor’s water bottle every day. How could he have been able to tell?

(It’s not like he’s guilty or anything, but still.)

“I told her you were cuddly and sweet,” she offers, still smiling like she’s got a secret. He snorts at the idea. He is neither, and he’s sure Judy knows it. “An incurable idealist, obviously, and so good with kits. No idea why she’d think you were a bit of a jerk when you’re _just so gallant.”_

“You trying to set me up there, Carrots?”

She shrugs and scratches her cheek with her pencil eraser. “Just messing with her. She’s a little mean.”

“Then why do you get coffee with her?”

“What, I shouldn’t be friends with someone who’s mean? Nick, in our profession, if we didn’t forgive a little rudeness, we’d have no friends.” Okay, fair. Maybe that’s a smack in the face, but it’s fair. He’s about to tell her so when she says, “You’re not going to be able to see from there. Come sit next to me.”

He eyes her. The stereotypes about bunnies aren’t true, and she’s right about not being able to see, so it’s _probably_ an innocent invitation. Her apartment, after all, only has one chair. He nods, stands, and carefully wedges himself against her headboard, suddenly violently aware of her size and the natural heat radiating from her and the way one of her ears is on him while the other is turned elsewhere. Yeesh. “Okay, show me what we’re looking at.”

“I started with 2 loose groups, traditionalists and progressivists. It’s crude, but it was too hard to group them with another starting point.” She points with the end of a pencil to the data breakdown on her tablet. He has to squint to see it, but it’s color-coded and detailed enough. “After that, I separated each group into extremes and voided the centrists for a minute, because you can usually count on centrists to have their pet interests but otherwise vote for whatever causes the least amount of resistance from their own constituents. They’re the ones who will need the most convincing. I discarded the extreme traditionalists wholesale, since they were never going to be on board, and extreme progressivists, because that particular faction is already giving lip service to this issue, even if none of them are _doing_ anything. We’ve got about 25 names here. 25 mammals we need to study and convince. I suggest we leave Partridge for last, because he’s the one we need to convince face-to-face.”

“That’s...a good plan,” he manages, a little blown away because _how_ has she managed to fit all of this into her schedule?

“So I’m thinking we should start with Esmeralda Skyhop,” she says, grinning, and his chest feels weirdly tight.

He takes a drink. He’s going to need it.

* * *

After hours of arguing, finishing the ales in Judy’s fridge, and a call to a local pizza delivery place, Nick is much more comfortable. He’s a trial lawyer; research and nuance are his weapons. Judy has given as good as she’s gotten all night, and he’s pretty confident that they’ll have their strategy hammered down within a few more sessions. It’s late, but he doesn’t feel like going home just yet to his quiet, lonely apartment, so he reclines next to her and pretends not to notice the time.

“I haven’t done a research project like this since law school,” she says, smiling up at him from her lazy sprawl across the pillow. Some part of him understands that this is probably a compromising and dangerous position to be in, but it’s quiet under the glow of intellectual stimulation and a job well done.

“Yeah, me neither,” he admits. “Being a trial lawyer, you’d think this would be a bigger part of the job, but...alas, no. Except for when I’m facing _you.”_

 _“Ha._ Funny.”

“No, I’m serious. You do trials long enough and you start to pick up on everybody’s style and pattern. But you and I have faced each other twice now, and each time your strategy was different. Honestly, I’m not sure why they’re not letting you do more work. It’s not like you’re a novelty anymore.”

“That’s sweet, but most of the office – except Gesa, anyway – is sort of collectively holding its breath, waiting for an epic bunny meltdown. It’s not like I haven’t been asked questions. There are certain interested parties who want to hear the first MII success story that doesn’t end in gruesome death. Sometimes it’s hard not to take it as an invitation to come dance before the king, but at least I’m not a complete joke anymore,” she says brightly. He winces. She isn’t far off, and until they butted heads over Dawn Bellwether, he was one of the king’s court, waiting for the funny little show. Still, she doesn’t seem perturbed by it. “Novelty or not, I get to do my job, so who cares what anyone else thinks?”

“You’re a better mammal than me, I guess. I’d be mad.”

“You’re exemplary, Nick,” she tells him, a soft look shining in her eyes. He focuses on _breathing,_ because what are the odds of anyone – _truthfully,_ anyway – not just saying that about him, but to him? Even his own best friends razz him rather than praise him, as he does to them, as they all three have done since they met. He isn’t sure what to do with that short sentence, but it feels nice. She continues, hopefully unaware of how much that means to him, “You pushed me. That first case was...the verdict was predictable, but the way you talked left me struggling to catch up. In an informal argument, you could have made her look like a saint. I can’t thank you enough for that. Being a good lawyer. Doing your job better than anyone else would have done.”

“That’s...hardly what happened,” he says faintly. He had no idea she held him in such high esteem; they work well together, and she’s never made a secret of her professional respect for him, but this? “I did my job, period. As anyone else would have.”

“You really think so,” she asks, twisting her torso so that she can look at him directly instead of diagonally. The over-pronunciation of her hip, just showing a bit of her tail, makes it an erotic pose, but he doubts she means it to be. He smothers the sudden, unexpected urge to suck on the tip of her ear. It’s ridiculous. He’s only reacting like this because he drank a little more than he expected to and he hasn’t jerked off in a while and he has a tiny crush and he’s _not_ thinking about this, nope, not even a little.

Nick clears his throat. “Yeah, I do.”

“If that’s the case, then you’re just a _better attorney!_ You know, I went and talked to old professors. I argued with retired defense attorneys and law students in their final year and I asked everyone to take it seriously, since my own office was reluctant to work with me. The one trait they all shared was obvious disdain for Bellwether. None of them could compartmentalize like you did. Even Grissom – you remember him, he retired three years ago, he defended _Mr. Big_ and got him off, which, I still don’t understand how that happened – I mean, he was a great attorney, but he’s a prey supremacist and he only took the Big case because crime enterprises are _loaded,_ and even _Grissom_ couldn’t hide how much he loathed her. And he probably agreed with the spirit of her aims! But you...made her mortal. You gave her personhood when everyone else was writing her off as a monster. I don’t…” Here, she yawns, ruining the eroticism of the moment, _thank God._ “I don’t have any aspirations as a defense attorney, but I really look up to you. You’re the kind of attorney I want to be. That’s why you were my second choice for this project, after the most accomplished civil rights attorney in the city. Only 7 years out of law school, Nick, and I wanna be you when I grow up.”

He snorts, and because he’s Nick, he can’t help himself. “I thought you wanted to take me on a desk like the bar exam.”

“Maybe I do,” she acknowledges, and he chokes on his own saliva when he breathes in sharply. He feels like he just licked a battery, and is this dangerous? It seems dangerous. He leans away from her. And then, as she’s slowly lifting herself up and crawling closer, he smells her breath.

They drank about the same amount tonight, but he’s over 3 times her weight. She’s drunk, probably not too drunk to realize what she’s saying, but drunk enough that she probably wouldn’t be saying it otherwise. _Thank God._ He sighs in relief and puts his palm on her forehead, halting her crawl. “Carrots, you are _wasted._ Maybe not stuttering mess, partying with the chemistry department, not gonna remember this tomorrow-level wasted, but let’s halt this conversation.”

She wrinkles her brow. “Halt?”

“This is an official motion to extend time,” he replies, because when in doubt, make jokes. “We’ll resume this conversation after 21 days, plus 7 days for mailing.”

 _Or we’ll resume this conversation never,_ he adds silently. He’s not ready to want her the way this conversation is going. He doesn’t _want_ to want her that way, the way that makes mammals burn from the inside and get stupid and make bad, life-ruining decisions. She’s nice, and she likes him, but that’s never been enough to make him _want_ someone before. This is an anomaly. It’s probably the alcohol. He’ll go back to normal when he sobers up.

“I’d submit a response that your motion sucks, but a reasonable Judge would grant it, so who am I to argue?”

And if that isn’t the weirdest and most adorable thing he’s heard in years, he’ll eat his own tie. It’s really not a good idea for him to stay any longer, is it? Trying not to allow any shake into his voice, he says, “I should get going anyway. It’s late and I have some work to do in the morning.”

“Ugh, _fine.”_

Nick tries not to overthink how much he likes the stern glare she gives him before she drops to the mattress again. Instead, he chooses to focus on collecting the file she prepared for him. It feels more solid in his paws than the rest of him feels. He has 18 names to study before they reconvene for a second study session. As he edges toward the door, hoping not to knock into any shelves, he promises himself he’ll offer his place for their meeting, because he never has alcohol in his apartment.

He’s got the door halfway open when she says, “Nick?”

“Yes?”

“You’re really great.”

“Uh…thank you,” he says hesitantly, before shooting out the door and shutting it behind him. His stupid heart feels like it’s going to explode. He’s not sober enough to deal with straightforward praise like that. He’ll just...hurry home. Yeah. Hurry home, picturing the faces of the Congressmammals he needs to research, and _not_ the weird little jolt her displeased-professor expression caused.

He just drank too much. That’s all.

* * *

He’s got his cell phone hooked up to a speaker in his office so that he can mess around with a document while he speaks to Gesa Klaue, because he is 100% in the Gesa-is-a-robot camp and every time they talk, his eyelids get heavy if he doesn’t keep himself occupied. It’s not that she’s boring, or even that she’s a bad attorney; you don’t get where she is today by being incompetent. She just has an unfortunate sterility in her voice that seems ill-fitted for anything except jury trials.

“You’ve reached Ms. Klaue’s office, how can I help you,” answers a bright voice on the other end.

“Hi, Nick Wilde calling about the Furson matter. Do you need the case number?”

“N-no, Mr. Wilde, um...will you please hold a moment?”

“Sure,” he says amiably, grinning at nothing. Gesa must be breaking in a new assistant. Two months from now, this girl will either sound completely professional or be gone. She has a low tolerance for silliness, from what Nick has heard. The sound of muzak fills his office as he squints at the wording in the email from Quilliam Greenwell, the divorce attorney representing a mutual client. Quilliam is old and successful enough that he doesn’t _have_ to work, he just _chooses_ to, and Nick wonders if it’s worth the potential hit to his career to remind the old porcupine that it’s pointless to password-protect a document when you _give the password in the email._

Oh well.

Their mutual client won’t stop harassing his soon-to-be-ex, and Nick has been trying for days to get Quill to explain to the guy that these two cases are _not_ the same; Nick’s about to withdraw as counsel if Eric doesn’t stop asking why he has to appear at the hearing on temporary orders if they’re going to court for his assault charge later that month anyway.

_Nick,_

_Copies of the Motion for Temporary Orders and Affidavit in Support of Motion for Temporary Orders are attached –_

For fuck’s sake, that’s not even close to the point!

“This is Gesa,” says the Prosecutor on the phone, saving Nick from death-by-head-explosion.

“Hey, Big G,” he replies winningly.

“Oh, it’s _you._ I’ll have to remind my new assistant your calls are to be routed to the desk clerk. I’m tired of you seducing my staff.”

“I don’t _seduce,”_ he complains. “I’m just polite. Your office would tear itself apart if it weren’t for you keeping them tied up with projects.”

“You’re not wrong about that.” Is that a laugh? On a Monday morning? Has Nick _died?_  Nope, her voice is back to normal when she adds, “I assume you’re calling about Furson?”

Nodding at empty air, he says, “You know me.”

“And I know cases. This one comes from further up the chain. I’ve got someone investigating who, precisely, is wasting my time, and they’re going to regret it when I find them.”

“Gonna lecture them to death?”

“Heavens, no, Wilde, I’ll send Hopps to speak to them. In _person.”_

“Ah.” He coughs to hide a laugh. “I’ll keep them in my prayers, then. What’s the ETA on that? I’m not willing to risk my client’s future on _maybes.”_

“I’m going to file a motion to dismiss the case. I know it’s irregular, but it is what it is. Keep an eye on the docket, and I’ll have my staff keep you updated. If you don’t hear from us in a week, feel free to file the motion yourself; I’m not going to object. It’s just easier for everybody if it comes from my office.”

“That’s the truth,” he agrees. “Well, thanks-”

“Hold on a moment.” He bites his tongue. Talk about irregular. Gesa likes talking on the phone as much as she likes anything else, which is not very much and not very often. Sounding a little far-away, she says, “Judy, take lunch. No, one carrot at your desk does not count as lunch. You are not getting paid _salary_ to be an overachiever, just – _thank you.”_

Nick can picture the droop of Judy’s ears. He can imagine that she’s probably slinking away from her desk, trying not to look resentful at being forced to take a break. He snickers and asks, “Not enough work to go around?”

“Clearly, if she’s still got time to knock knees with the likes of _you.”_

“Whoa, whoa,” he splutters. “Whatever you’ve got in your head, it’s not like that. We’re just researching Congressmammals together.”

“Oh, is that what they’re calling it these days?”

“If by ‘it,’ you mean ‘attempting to draft legislation like a pair of first-years who believe their voices matter,’ then yes,” he says, perhaps more aggressively than necessary.

“Oh. Good luck, then,” she answers ominously. “I was about to ask you not to poison my best and brightest, but now I see only the reverse is necessary. You have a nice day, Nick.”

“Wait-”

The line goes dead. Nick and Gesa have never had much antagonism between them; most attorneys don’t. Gesa gives him shit for choosing defense and he gives her shit for trying to recruit him, but that’s normally the extent of things. He’s not sure how to interpret Gesa’s obvious interest in Judy’s activities outside the office, but he knows one thing for sure: for the sake of both their careers, this crush on Judy has _got_ to stop.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In a large city like Zootopia, there would be a few different prosecutors, so a relationship between Nick and Judy wouldn't be illegal, and it wouldn't even be unethical, it would just be obnoxious professionally. Surprising no one, Nick would rather prioritize his career over these weird new feelings. Feelings are gross and mildly unsanitary.
> 
> Stay tuned for politics and Bunny Scouts.


	4. The Great Gig

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there is an abundance of fluff in preparation for the final, less-fluffy chapter.

Judy might be motivated and idealistic, but she tends to be a bit severe; when it comes to being charming, Nick has her beat six ways from Sunday, so it’s his job to pitch the plan to Partridge. He’s been practicing longer and Partridge may be prey, but he’ll listen to a male over a female every time, and almost anyone over an  _ affirmative action hire.  _ (And if Nick would rather not hear the old politician say the same bigoted things to Judy that he said last time, well, that’s just common decency, right?)

The mood in the office is somber. Partridge doesn’t seem happy to be interrupted, even though Nick knows for a fact that they’ve been on his schedule for a week now, and he’s refusing to look at Judy. Not that Nick is surprised; he’s not even disappointed. He didn’t expect much from a traditionalist politician whose office looks like it belongs on the set of some gritty-but-boring political drama.

They’ve gone over everything. Eaglehead and Clawfield probably won’t go for it; Redd and Greenleaf will probably just vote however the wind blows. Fortunately, the language in the proposed legislation is reasonable enough that it  _ should  _ get enough votes, with the progressivist support, to pass. Assuming, that is, that they can convince Partridge to sponsor the bill. He’s hard-nosed, an old-school traditionalist, the kind of bigoted that unfortunately (but predictably) tends to be overlooked by other traditionalists for the sake of compromise, but not completely unreasonable. He also needs more support than he’s currently getting. If he wants to be voted into office again, he needs to make a grand gesture like this. 

He looks torn. It’s easy to guess what he’s thinking. Partridge knows as well as Nick does that he  _ needs  _ this to even  _ dream  _ of winning enough votes to stay in office, but on the other paw, it might land him in hot water with his current dwindling voter base. Politicians are predictable. That’s why Nick thinks he can swing this.

“You know there’s a lot of unrest in this province,” he informs Partridge needlessly, “especially after the upset with the special protections ballot initiative being undermined and your refusal last year to represent your constituents on the tax reform bill.”

“I  _ represented  _ the voters-”

“Clearly not, if polling suggests 76% of them are planning to vote for Linda Blossom,” Nick counters. He and Judy decided during their strategy meeting that being direct with Partridge is their best bet. Politicians tend to talk circles around an issue as sensitive as domestic terrorism, but laying most of the cards on the table — and reminding Partridge that his position  _ is  _ precarious — should be shocking enough to motivate him. It’s not a guarantee, but based on what they know about him from sniffing around his staff, and how he has reacted publicly to criticism, this seemed like the best option. “You represented a constituency that is now too small to matter to someone as practical and sharp as you.”

He kind of wants to take a shower.

Judy shifts beside him. She’s supposed to be silent here; they don’t want Partridge to focus on someone he so clearly doesn’t respect. She insisted, however, on being there. Nick doesn’t  _ think  _ it’s pride, but she was firm in her stance. He hopes she knows what she’s doing—

Oh. She’s there to remind Partridge of his mistakes. That’s a little mean, but probably effective, and Nick would do the same thing.

“We,” Nick adds, gesturing between himself and Judy, “are both new attorneys, that's true, but we've done our research on demographics. Furthermore, I always knew I wanted to do criminal law, but Hopps seriously considered civil rights; we knew what we were doing when we wrote this. You’ll have plenty of time to run this by your colleagues a dozen times, of course. But I think at this point, if you want to salvage your career…”

They’re two nobodies who really don’t have any sway. Another attorney might consider this kind of move career suicide. But Partridge’s staff has been fairly open with the fact that he’s been getting this from all sides; even the PI that Nick and Judy hired to get some dirt on the guy noticed the pressure. It’s not anything he hasn’t heard before; it is, however, a possible solution. Not a pointless non-apology, but an action.

(And it will ultimately do nothing. But like most politicians, Partridge thinks too highly of himself to consider that he can’t salvage this.)

The air feels heavy as Partridge looks between Nick and Judy, lips pursed, eyes slightly narrowed. He doesn’t look happy, but he hasn’t written them off yet, so that’s something. Judy shifts again and says, “Come on, Wilde. We can wait; we’ll just float this to Blossom after she’s voted in next year.”

“Get it on my desk by Monday,” Partridge says reluctantly. “No later than ten.”

Judy pulls out her phone, presses her screen twice, and smiles. “It should be in your inbox now. Thank you, Mr. Partridge.”

“Well, I can’t say no to the face of Lionheart’s little affirmative action experiment,” Partridge replies, leaning forward. His voice lacks the warmth that might otherwise be associated with that statement, as condescending as it is. “You’re clearly motivated to get this passed, if you’re working with your enemy. Who knows how you might seduce my staff to your side, eh?”

It is willpower cultivated through years of dealing with criminals that keeps Nick’s mouth from dropping open. There was nothing wrong with that statement, necessarily;  _ seduce  _ has several meanings, and the words could be taken as friendly on paper. But he said it to  _ Judy,  _ a bunny, whose species is saddled with the ridiculously inaccurate stereotype of being promiscuous and having no standards. It doesn’t need to be affirmatively stated for the implication to be clear.

Nick watches out of the corner of his eye as Judy beams up at Partridge. “We appreciate your time and support, as will your voters, I’m sure. This is going to do a lot of good. Thank you for working with us to make the world a better place. Oh, look at the time, I need to get going before I’m late for a meeting. Have a nice day, Mr. Partridge.”

Head held high above her secondpaw suit, she sweeps out of the room, leaving Nick to finish pleasantries. He can’t help but think that her theatrics were adorable. And kind of hot.

“I’m looking forward to hearing your thoughts,” Nick says politely with a smile meant to be vaguely unsettling, and hopes that Partridge doesn’t notice how much he appreciated Judy’s little show.

* * *

Fridays at the planetarium mean Pink Fossa laser light shows. He isn’t really  _ into  _ Pink Fossa, but even he can admit that  _ Dark Side of the Moon  _ is one of the best concept albums ever made, and with the thrill of the company (and the celebratory wine) hitting his system, everything feels light and floaty. Judy looks lovely, the light gray of her fur making her stand out against the dim lighting as she smiles at the blank dome of the planetarium. This is where, most of the time, children and young students come to learn about constellations and basic astrophysics concepts; even adults can come to visually learn about relativity, black holes, that sort of thing, and it’s enjoyable even though it’s geared toward kits.

Nick’s never seen a laser show before. He wonders if he’d be this excited were he going with his friends instead of Judy. Probably not.

“I haven’t done this since undergrad,” she whispers to him, her voice louder than perhaps she thinks it is. It was probably not the best idea to drink together again, but they both limited themselves to two glasses (sized for their own species) and ate plenty of food with it.

This...feels like a date. It isn’t one, as far as he knows, but it feels like one. Part of him wants to run away from that, but that part of him is hidden behind the Cabernet Sauvignon and the excitement for the show. Feeling daring, he leans over, just barely brushing their heads together, and replies in a low voice, “I’ve never seen a light show.”

“Oh, you’ll love it,” she gushes, turning her head just slightly. Their eyes meet and it feels electric, but he doesn’t look away. Her voice gets a little bit breathy. “I befriended a physics major who liked the planetarium. Can’t remember her name, but I do remember seeing a technicolor version of  _ Gianni Schicchi.  _ Laser opera. It was a trip.”

“You like opera?”

“Doesn’t everyone?” She leans in a little more. “It’s holding paws in the dark with someone dear to you, listening to beautiful music in a language you may or may not understand. Getting chills and being so aware of your companion that you can practically taste them breathing. Plus, operas can get surprisingly funny. I think you’d like that one. It’s a comedy about a really selfish family hiring a mammal to alter their patriarch’s will and getting conned out of most of their assets.”

“Are you trying to say something about foxes,” he teases.

“Just one fox. The smartest guy I know. If anyone can appreciate a good hustle, it’s a fellow attorney.”

Her breath is on his lips. He could kiss her right now. Maybe he should. They’re attracted to each other, aren’t they? He has a reason for not wanting to want her, but he can’t remember it. Just one kiss couldn’t hurt anything…

“Oh, here it comes,” she squeals happily as the lights dim, and she grabs his paw with both of hers while she wriggles in her seat. He hopes she can’t hear how his heart is pounding.

“Welcome, music fans,” booms a voice from the speakers. “If you're here to listen to Pink Fossa, you're in the right place. If you're not, you're still in the right place. I'm David Stonetooth, and I'll be your DJ, laser engineer, and guide tonight. Now, I know some of you here are...a little  _ chemically enhanced…”  _ There's some light laughter from the crowd. “...so just remember, your seats aren't really moving. If you feel scared or sick, just close your eyes. If you feel like you're going to have a seizure, the exits haven't moved, and there is staff right outside each door. If you see the end of all things animate and inanimate, wait till the show is done and call NASA, their physicists will be interested to know how you got this information. Other than that, try not to chat to your neighbors, and for the love of everything fluffy, make sure your cell phones are turned off. Last time  _ Us and Them  _ was interrupted by the Kim Pawsible theme song twice, and nobody was happy. Any questions?”

Although there is a little bit of amused murmuring from the crowd, nobody asks anything. The DJ gives them a bit of time to turn off their cell phones and then says, “All right, you animals, hold on tight, we’re about to take off.”

Judy takes a deep breath and squeezes his paw, and for a moment, that’s all he can think about. He feels warm and excited, and only half of that is the alcohol and venue. Maybe not even half. He thinks about what this means for him — maybe it doesn’t mean anything, maybe it doesn’t  _ have  _ to — and then the music plays, and he thinks nothing.

His eyes go wide as he sinks into the music, letting go of life and the concept of time and anything except the art and Judy’s paw. The moving pictures on the dome make him feel like he’s flying, being sucked into space. He glides down fractals and holds his breath when the lasers flash right above him. Unscented smoke wisps through the lights, swirling and taking on the colors around it, and everything seems to pulse in time with the music. And speaking of  _ Time... _

He looks over at a particularly tight squeeze and sees real tears in Judy’s eyes. It’s a beautiful song, and she’s a beautiful mammal, and it all just  _ clicks— _

* * *

His paw feels empty without hers in it, but she has her fingers threaded through his beltloop, so now he’s overly aware of that area of his hip as they walk, their post-show ice cream now long gone. Neither of them have any real destination in mind. It’s a clear, beautiful night, and although the stars aren’t as visible in the city as he imagines they are in the country, where Judy grew up, the sky is like the backdrop to something he doesn’t want to name.

“Come on,” he says suddenly, because why not? “I want to take you somewhere special. It isn’t very far from here.”

“Where is it,” she asks, but not warily.

“Fisher’s Creek. You probably haven’t heard of it, but it has the best view.”

She takes his paw and he pulls her along, mind racing. He’s never brought anyone here except his best friend; Peter has no idea what it means to Nick, either. But Peter isn’t Judy. In the past month and a half, he’s gotten to a very intimate place with her, just by working together and texting each other. He wants to show her this place — a mere three-minute walk up a hill — because he thinks she’ll appreciate it, and because he wants her to stick around.

“Once upon a time, this was a real creek, with water and everything. Fish, too, probably. These days it’s just cracked earth,” he tells her as they near the footbridge. “Nobody comes here anymore, so it’s a nice place to relax and catch a little sun. Or watch the stars.”

“It’s sweet,” she says brightly, squeezing his paw. “I’m surprised the light pollution doesn’t make seeing the sky impossible. Where I live…”

Amused, he replies, “You live in the spiral. Look out your window and you see a big building. Look out the front door and you see neon signs everywhere. Let’s sit for a minute.”

“Or a few,” she murmurs, and sits down in a patch of grass. He joins her, leaning back on his elbows and looking up at the sky.

Eventually the sound of her breathing is a comfort instead of an electric thrill, so he can look at her again and say, “I ran away from home once when I was twelve. I came here. I was  _ determined  _ to make it on my own. I even had a lawn chair and a cooler; the cooler for clothes and blankets, the lawn chair for sleeping. I lasted a whole three hours before my mother found me. Nothing comes second to a mother’s nose.”

Judy bumps his arm with her shoulder. “She must have been a good mom, to notice within three hours that you were gone.”

“I guess she was,” he acknowledges, even though it makes him feel awkward to do so. “She did what she could to keep me alive, but by the time I was grown up enough to understand that, we already had an antagonistic relationship. We never got along after my dad died. She was a con artist, and I wanted to go to law school. She didn’t trust anyone, and she tried to raise me to do the same. If I hadn’t found friends in the Junior Ranger Scouts, who knows, maybe that would have stuck. Maybe I would be just another name on your list of successful prosecutions.”

“I doubt it. You have a good heart, Nick,” she says quietly, looking up at him. “If we all turned out like our parents without outside intervention, I’d be a carrot farmer who settled for a buck I didn’t love and litters upon litters of kits I didn’t want. It worked out for Mom and Dad; they fell in love eventually, and they did love their kits, but they thought that because it worked out for them, that should be good enough for me.  _ Nobody  _ thought I’d get where I am today. Nobody wanted this for me, but I worked hard and took advantage of all the loopholes and resources I could find. I think you would have done the same.”

“Why do you think so highly of me,” he asks.

She shrugs with a pretty little smile. “Aside from all the undefinable emotional stuff? You’re smart and funny and brave. You know how to have a good time, but you also know how to work hard. You care. I like that in a mammal. Therefore, I like you.”

The stars make her eyes glisten. It just feels  _ right,  _ so he whispers, “Motion to kiss opposing counsel.”

“Order sustaining motion to kiss,” she whispers back, and it’s cheesy and amazing so he dips his muzzle to kiss her soundly.

It’s supposed to be short and sweet, but a great shudder runs through Nick at her sound of satisfaction. Her breath hitches when he brings his paw up and runs the back of his fingers gently across her cheek; in response, she bites down softly on his lower lip. 

He can hardly think when she swings her leg over to straddle his lap, but he can’t bring himself to mind the dirt that is surely going to cling to his clothes and elbow. He doesn’t care about anything except her paw tugging on his tie and her lips trailing from his mouth and up his face to his unexpectedly sensitive ear. She squirms in his lap and he hisses lightly at the feeling. This is so wrong, but that doesn’t stop him from slipping lower and nipping at her shoulder, and the  _ noise  _ she makes is enough to make his chest burst into flames. 

“What are we  _ doing,”  _ he asks rhetorically, and licks the shell of her ear.

“I don’t...Nick!” She pulls away, eyes wide. “Nick, what  _ are  _ we doing?”

“We’re. Oh.” It hits him like cold water. “We’re making out. Outside. Like a couple of teenagers on prom night.”

With a small laugh, she says, “I never went to prom.”

“Me neither,” he replies, and they’re both avoiding the problem, but it seems to be fine. They’re adults, right? Nobody’s around. They’re not actually doing anything wrong, they’re just doing something silly and childish.

“Will you believe me if I tell you I didn’t plan to seduce you tonight? Because I didn’t,” she says, “but I’m not unsatisfied with the results.”

And she kisses him again. He wants to just keep going, but the way she said that flips a switch in his brain. Breathing heavily, he pulls away and says, “Hopps. Judy. Be honest with me; trust me, I won’t mind. When you invited me out, was it supposed to be a da-”

“Don’t say the word, please,” she interjects. “Not yet. I’m not ready to do that, so no, that wasn’t my intent. I like you, Nick. I think you’re amazing. Kissing you was...wow. I could do that forever and not get tired of it. But can we just...be friends for a while? Get to know each other,  _ hang out  _ like normal mammals? We can bring up the D word when we know it’s going to work. When we know we’re not going to hurt each other.”

“We  _ won’t,”  _ he says, nonplussed. 

“Won’t we? I don’t mean emotionally. We’re adults, and this is too new to be devastating. But I don’t want to put my career in jeopardy on the idea that you and I could be good together, and I doubt you do either. If we do end up together, then there will be cases we can’t work. You and I will never face each other in the courtroom. And that’s fine if we work, but disappointing if we don’t. So let’s find that out first, okay? This wasn’t...one of those. This was an outing between friends. And if being  _ friends  _ works out really nicely, then I promise you I won’t be opposed to calling our outings something else.”

Nick never considered himself a dreamer. He’s always considered himself a pragmatist, even a cynic, because if you have low expectations then you won’t often be disappointed. This is...a new feeling. He doesn’t like the feeling of losing something he never had, something that he’s not entitled to in the first place. So he pushes it aside, because Judy’s right: they should know if they’d be good together before they make that kind of career shift. Working together and dating are vastly different things, different types of connection, and frankly, there have been times during this project where the border between friendly connection and something a little more romantic has been crossed. That night in her apartment comes to mind. 

“Yeah,” he says, nodding. He doesn’t pull away from her, and she doesn’t let go of his tie. “Let’s be friends for a while.”

“I’m sorry for the...physical affection. You asked, and I wanted to kiss you, but it was irresponsible to get into it as much as I did,” she apologizes, trying to move away.

He stops her with a grip on her hip. It’s not tight enough to actually keep her from leaving, but tight enough to ask her to stay. “Friends kiss sometimes. I’m not worried if you aren’t.”

“Opposing counsel requests sidebar,” she muses. “I approve. Very Court Drama.”

“You know that’s now how you’re supposed to use that expression,” he laughs, but she gives him that disappointed professor look again. Against the light of the moon, it makes his heart pound, so he goes quiet and decides she can do and say whatever she wants, as long as she’ll keep looking at him like that. Or, really, just keep looking at him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you ever get a chance to do the Pink Floyd date, have some weed beforehand. It will blow your fucking mind, kid.


	5. A Brighter World

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> One year later, Nick knows what he wants.

The fact that nobody has called him on his blatant staring is a goddamn miracle. It’s hot today — hotter than it’s been in a while, since the climate regulators are on the fritz — and in favor of her pressed white button-up and black blazer, she’s opted for a sleeveless blouse in green with gleaming pearl buttons. When she passes her boss a folder, he sees the flex of her musculature, and wonders why he never asked what she does to stay so _fit._ Surely not the lazy yoga he hasn’t gotten around to practicing, even _if_ he promised his doctor he would.

No offense to Dr. Hightail, but he’ll eat BugBurga when and where he wants, and there’s nothing anybody can do to stop him.

Gesa Klaue has eyes only for the commissioner, a tired gazelle bulging out of his chalk-stripe suit. He’s one of the most unpleasant mammals Nick has ever had to work with, and Nick's clients are _criminals._ Commissioner Hornsby thinks highly of himself, but so does Nick; it’s the undeserved arrogance that bristles Nick’s tail. Does he think he’s special just because he made it through law school? Anyone can do that. It’s not hard. Nick's scoutmate Sean did it, and he’s not exactly a genius. It’s not about how smart you are, it’s about how well you can anticipate exam answers.

“Ms. March,” says Hornsby in his obnoxious drone, “do you understand what I’m telling you?”

The hare beside him, Patrice March, gives the commissioner a foul look. “If I say no, will you drop the charges?”

“Don’t pick a fight, Patrice,” Nick murmurs. “This guy could have a paw in deciding the course of events.”

Hopps, rather uncharacteristically, looks like she wants to punch his client. Or kick her. Or something equally violent, possibly involving knives. Nick didn’t know that much anger could fit into one tiny body. What is her problem, anyway?

The room gets hotter, but Nick isn’t sure if it’s the climate regulators or Hopps. It happens whenever he sees her now, when they get coffee and talk about the latest Supreme Court rulings and argue about whether slasher flicks are a waste of time (Nick’s firm stance) or a nice distraction from the actual horrors of reality (Hopps’ whimsical interpretation). He feels like he’s burning under his fur whenever she gives him that _look._ Her fire is…

...Distracting, that’s what. Somebody’s going to notice if he doesn’t put his eyeballs somewhere else.

He settles his gaze on his client. This case is going to be wretched, and not just because she’s stubborn. She took a business law class in community college and thinks she knows everything, but somehow she missed the part where registering as a foster parent and subsequently abusing her charges is, at _best,_ a gross misdemeanor. Of course, she doesn’t see it that way, but they never do. Abusers always believe they’ve done nothing wrong.

He has too much self-control to curl his lip in disgust, but he’d dearly like to. He’s never been very fond of kits, but the thought of how someone like Nick himself could have turned out after a bit of abuse is unpleasant. He’s always been smart and slick and prone to buckling under too much pressure. He’d probably have ended up in organized crime or something.

Thank goodness for the Scouts. His friends might not have gotten the problem on a personal level, but they softened the blow of near-universal distrust, and he’s pretty sure that alone saved him from a lifetime of resentment and vague internalized speciesism.

Gesa addresses him. He focuses on her. She’s old and stern-looking, impassive as usual, but lately she’s been a little yellow in the eyes and she smells sickly. He already knew she was diabetic, but now it looks like there’s something wrong with her liver, too. It’s about time for her to retire, if she wants any sort of quality life before she dies. “Nick, I expect your office is open to negotiations?”

“I believe we are,” he says, giving Patrice a once-over. She may not believe she abused her charges, but there’s plenty of evidence against her. She’d have to be an idiot not to take whatever Gesa offers her.

Hopps goes rigid and clenches her paws, but does not speak. He doesn’t let his eyes stray to her, but he imagines that all of her anger has been smoothed off of her face as a result of her attempt to stay calm. It’s almost a tragedy that law requires a specific persona; he’s begun to like her free laughter and passionate discussion during their meetings. He feels lighter just being around her.

...But they’re friends, until they decide to be something else. He’s open to negotiations, but she isn’t yet. Good thing he’s good at waiting.

* * *

“Hey, Fluff,” he says, sliding into the booth across from Judy. They’ve never been to a bar together before, but they didn’t really come here together. Nick came in to say hi to Finnick, the somewhat reformed ex-client of his who now tends the bar, and he happened to see her moping at her table.

“Hello, Mr. Wilde,” she says through gritted teeth. Ouch. Her choice to revert to Mr. Wilde after an entire year of calling him Nick seems like an actual targeted attack. Then again, the empty shot glasses lined up on the laminated wood might have something to do with her pointed professionalism. He hopes she’s not an alcoholic. This seems more like a situational self-medication, from what he knows about her; she might keep a few beers in her fridge, but they often stay there for weeks or months at a time.

It says something about how close they are that he knows when she’s had company just by the state of her refrigerator.

“You seem happy.” He eyes her next glass, which she pulls toward herself, like he’d steal it. Ugh. Nick usually prefers his alcohol smothered in fruit and sugar, so he won’t have to _taste_ it. “Happy as a clam at high tide.”

“Joke all you want. You’re not the one who has to sit back and watch while Gesa offers that...that…” She makes a noise that might be a shriek if she didn’t sound so miserable. It fits in all right with the dim lighting and the sort of grungy feel of the place, but she doesn’t wear it well at all on her usually-bright face.

He grimaces, not entirely unsympathetic, but not understanding what’s got her so worked up. This is what law _is._ It’s what they _do._ “She’s just doing her job, you know.”

“Well, the job sucks, and so does she, and so do you, and so do I.”

“The Judy Hopps I know would never say that.” He grabs her paw lightly and slides the shot away from her before she can drink it; tellingly, she doesn’t protest. “But the Judy Hopps I know is also very drunk, so I’m gonna do something dangerous and assume this is personal to you.”

She grabs his paw with both of hers and he’s startled to see actual agony on her face. “I hate having to stand by. Every case is bad, but especially ones like these. I don’t understand why they go after children. I’ve studied case law, I’ve read reports, I took criminal psychology in undergrad, and I still don’t understand _why._ I don’t even _want_ kits and it makes me want to scream. Why do they have to target the small, weak, powerless ones? Why can’t they just...I don’t know, find a consenting adult?”

“It’s not the same if there’s consent,” he says quietly, pointedly not indulging in the tantalizing images _consenting adult_ brings up. He doesn’t try to dislodge her. Honestly, he’s never had this particular crisis of conscience — or whatever this is — but he’s not the one who has to get into their heads. “Mammals like that...the whole point is to have complete control. If you have consent, there’s still a little piece of your control that doesn’t belong to you, and unless consent is revoked, it’s not the same. You see it all the time in sex offenders. It’s not really about the victim. It’s about the power, whatever the offender’s weapon of choice is.”

“But they can’t fight _back._ They don’t have a chance. These aren’t just mammals who go around hurting random kits, they target the kits who _need_ them, they...they convince these kits that it’s normal or necessary or just another kind of punishment, and you get broken bones and scars and it makes me _so mad._ I’ve never even talked to the defendant and I hate her so much I could…”

Nick’s breath hitches as her nails dig into his pawpad, but he doesn’t say anything, partly because it’s not painful and partly because she probably doesn’t even know she’s doing it. Her grip on everything, from her briefcase to her mug to his paw, has always been tight. As far as emotional breakdowns go, this is pretty tame. He sighs, ducking down slightly so they’re at eye level. “She’s scum, Hopps, but our job is to make sure the system works. We can’t do our jobs poorly just because we hate what happened. I can’t let my feelings on the matter affect the way I defend her, Gesa can’t let her feelings get in the way of her process, and if the charges drop from a felony to a misdemeanor in favor of _not going to court_ and wasting everyone’s time, we can look the taxpayers in the eye. You...you’re a good attorney. You’re brilliant, and you really care, which is something Gesa either lost somewhere along the way or never had to begin with. When she retires in — five years or so, assuming the diabetes doesn’t get her first, this is going to be your job. In just a couple of years she’s gone from hating you to grooming you. It isn’t writing on the wall, it’s a flashing neon sign. But if you let your feelings get in the way, you won’t last. You can feel whatever you want, but don’t let them see that it gets to you.”

“It _does_ get to me. Not all the time. But in cases like this…”

He nods and asks, “Friend or ex?”

She blinks slowly, either a side effect of the alcohol or genuine confusion. “What?”

“Was it a friend who got abused, or an ex?”

She takes a deep breath and lets it out. When she brings her paws back, he thinks for one stupid moment that he should try to grab them again. “It was a friend. One of my closest friends back in Bunnyburrow, though we weren’t close until we were fourteen. He...heh. I actually got these scars on my cheek from him.”

Another mood swing. Lovely. Then again, she _is_ drunk. He squints through the dim yellow light as she runs her nails through her fur. It’s enough to let him see faded, but distinct, claw marks. Canid. As much as he’s watched her, he’s never seen these before. Does she hide them on purpose, or is she just lucky enough to have fur growth that covers them? Unaware of his thoughts, she continues, “He was almost sent away after that, but there wasn’t another family willing to take him. We fought all the time back then. But my friend Sharla’s older brother was watching this show when I was there helping her with a science project, and one of the lines was about how mammals aren’t born violent, they’re made violent. So I, uh, I poked at him until he told me what was wrong. It was a big hullaballoo, and the Harrisons left town in disgrace, but my best friend’s family took him in. I promised myself I would hurry up and get my law degree so that I could make sure criminals like the Harrisons got what they deserved. I still feel like the charges were wrong.”

“So that’s why you rushed through college?”

“And high school,” she confirms. “I didn’t even finish. Took the GED and the SAT’s as soon as I knew enough and just...never stopped. I saw how bad things could get, and I wanted to make the world a better place.”

He’s impressed despite himself. He doesn’t think he would have reacted positively had _he_ been attacked at a young age. “And...it was all because of a friend who scarred you for life?”

She shakes her head and grabs at the air, a gesture of powerlessness. “Nothing so noble. A better friend would have stayed and finished school with him. I just hate to stand by doing nothing while there’s a fire burning. The stories I heard about the Harrisons kept me awake at night. I couldn’t stop thinking about all the other mammals who got hurt, or were victimized in some way. We need cops to catch criminals, but we need lawyers to make sure they get punished.”

“I see,” he says, although he doesn’t.

She zeroes in on him with wide eyes, and he can’t look away. It’s a physical compulsion to keep looking, and as disconcerting as it is, he loves it, a little. “Why did you become a defense attorney? I’m serious; Gesa told me she tried to recruit you. I want to know the real answer.”

“It’s a little lame,” Nick says. He rarely feels ashamed, but suddenly, after her story, his argument seems weak. “Everybody sees foxes as shifty, manipulative creatures. Nobody wants a fox to represent them in a divorce or a civil dispute or anything that involves money, but defense? They’ll jump at the chance to get a fox on their side. They think I’ll get them off by playing with the rules. Unpalatable or not, someone has to defend these mammals. Might as well be me.”

“Nick,” she breathes, and his heart leaps at the expression on her face. It’s something more than respect. “It doesn’t matter what anybody else thinks. You’re wonderful. I am so lucky to be here with you.”

 _She’s drunk,_ he thinks, and tries not to take her declaration to heart. It doesn’t work. She feels the same, and they both know it.

“Let me take you home,” he says softly. He reaches out, unable to stop himself from offering comfort, and strokes her cheek, watching her eyes close, feeling her nuzzle into his paw. It would be so easy to bring up their agreement again. Now, later, durng any of their outings before now. Instead, they haven’t even kissed again in the past year they’ve been _friends._ “You’re not going to find a better world at the bottom of a shot glass.”

“I don’t want to find a better world. I want to make one. We got Partridge to take our deal and it’s still being argued. I’m sitting here with someone I care about and I can’t even look at you without...Nick, I want to do the right thing. I want to _help.”_

“Sometimes helping means sitting by,” he admits, because that’s the truth of law. “Sometimes it’s more important to make a deal. You know that in any given case there might not be enough compelling evidence to convict, because _mammals_ make up a jury, and sometimes the defendant is sympathetic. We’re not talking work right now — we’re talking theory. And _in theory,_ sometimes it’s better to make a deal than to risk not getting a conviction at all.”

They aren’t talking theory, but they’re not talking shop. He’s not trying to sell her on anything; he just wants her to _feel better,_ because she shouldn’t hurt. And he feels ridiculous, because this isn’t who he is…

...Well, maybe it is. Maybe it’s just taken this long to find someone he can show his heart to, and that’s as terrifying as it is amazing. Because —

“I know. I’m an attorney. This is what we do, even if it’s hard, because sometimes we have to make sacrifices to make the world a better, safer place,” she says gloomily.

— There really isn’t any going back now, and he wouldn’t want to go back if he could.

“Let me take you home,” he says again.

“And take off my skirt and kiss me,” she asks, a funny expression quirking her brow and a breathy tone in her voice.

“And tuck you into bed and let you sleep and hope you don’t have a hangover tomorrow,” he corrects. He wouldn’t know what to do with her if he had her sober on his bed anyway, so it’s a good thing she’s not sober. He might cave if she were asking him with sound mind.

She huffs and says, “Fine, then. _Be_ a gentlemammal.”

But she doesn’t let him pull his paw away from her cheek. He traces her cheekbone with his thumb and thinks maybe this better world thing isn’t so farfetched after all. She’s inspired him, and together, they’ve inspired legislation. If he turns his head, he can see the world she’s built around herself, the world she sees when she thinks about this hypothetical better future, and yeah — he wants to be part of it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is not the end of my lawyers AU, but it is the end of this installment. Going forward, it's about Nick and Judy developing their Thing together. Let's face it, I'm not anything close to a lawyer; my bread and butter is fluff and my jam is kink. Future installments will keep the cute legal wordplay and will have allusions to their jobs, but I'll mostly keep it out of the courtroom.


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